Crusty Tuesdays stick flyers about a month for sale in my old, chipped mailbox. I need a deal. Math has been chomping in my periphery. I threaten him with my angry blood. Rage washes over the periwinkle, petrified plane. Take my hands. Sew them to the monster you keep chained in your office behind the ad soaked computer monitor that logs your wasted time. I feel I am not real, which makes me true and evanescent. I’d like to buy a month. September, perhaps, savory and amber. Or July, polished until it gleams. But my funds cannot be found. Money hears my name and prances off to another pretend person.
Miniature Moon 